Day 602

You waited in line all day
to get food for your children.
The smallest one — two and a half — 
came with you.  Waited.  The sun
beat down, your child
was crying.  Overhead, drones
fixed on their targets.  Two, three
people killed.  Waiting.  You waited.
You watched others being handed
boxes of food:  unclear
what was in them.  There would be
something you could feed
this child and her brothers.
You saw people, hour
after hour, walk away with boxes.
Waited.  Four hours.  Six.
You watched shadows lengthen, the sun
move westward across the sky.  At last
a man called out to the crowd
that no boxes were left.  Not
one.  Your child by then
had fallen asleep, her small face
red from the sun.  Her arms,
bone-thin, wrapped
around your shoulders.